This is a side story set two years before the events of Separation Anxiety and which references characters and events from the main story.

The snow fell gently over the rooftops of St. Petersburg, giving the city a soft, warm look, like something out of a Christmas card. It was only afternoon, but the sun had already set, and the streets were lit with hundreds of lights shining merrily in the darkness. People walked down the roads in groups, laughing and talking as they pointed at the colorful window displays, and somewhere nearby came the sound of traditional folk music played over a speaker.

Viktor almost felt like he and Yuuri were on a date as they walked through the city with purpose. He wanted to pull Yuuri aside and point out all the charming things for sale, or sit down on a bench and just enjoy the holiday atmosphere together, but he knew from the grim look on Yuuri's face that there was work to do. This was no time for frivolity.

"None of this looks familiar," Vitya muttered as they passed another block and moved into a residential area. The air here was quieter, though no less merry. The streetlamps shone brightly, illuminating old brick buildings with decorated doors and windows. As a tourist destination, St. Petersburg had adopted quite a lot of the western holiday spirit, despite the fact that in Vitya's experience, at least, religion wasn't too widespread among the residents.

"It's on the next block," Yuuri explained simply, his hands deep in his pockets. Vitya wished he could take one of them and hold it, but Yuuri never let him show affection in public anymore. That part of their life was over now.

"I don't see why she's moved," he said, trying to keep the conversation going. "Didn't Lilia leave her a fortune in inheritance? What about the Feltman house?"

"She's sold it," Yuuri said as they turned the corner. "You should have known this already."

"I did," Vitya frowned. "But that doesn't mean I understand it."

Yuuri shrugged, his eyes eyeing the numbers on the buildings without any particular emotion.

"It's none of our business, what she does with private funds." He paused and pulled a phone from his pocket, the sudden brightness of the screen blinding Viktor for a moment. "We're here," he said a second later, and Viktor turned to see a nondescript brick building sandwiched between two others just like it. The door was old fashioned and wooden, and unlike the neighbors there were no decorations to be seen in any of the windows.

"It doesn't suit her at all," Vitya said as he stared up at the apartment. But Yuuri wasn't listening, and he was already climbing the steps to the door. He knocked firmly as Viktor joined him on the porch.

"Yuuri... are you sure about this?" he asked quietly. Yuuri ignored him, his eyes fixed firmly on the door.

It was about a minute before it opened and a young woman with bright blue eyes and dark red hair stepped out.

"Hmm?" she said, blinking at them curiously. "Papa? And Viktor Mikhailovich? To what do I owe this visit?" she asked. Mila Babicheva was younger than she looked, still underage in most parts of the world, and her mannerisms were telling of her inexperience. A member of the bratva would normally never question the pakhan, even if he arrived in the middle of the night covered in blood. Family custom insisted that an underling always have their door open to him, no questions asked.

"Mila," Vitya warned, his tone a reprimand. She blinked and seemed to come to her senses.

"Oh, yes. Please, come in," she said, only a small hint of hastiness in her voice as she stepped aside. Yuuri nodded and stepped into the foyer, Vitya on his heels.

The inside of the apartment was just as simple as the outside; there was almost no personal touch to the place, as far as Vitya could tell. A single photograph hung in the hall, and Viktor thought he recognized the shock of red hair on a small child in the corner of it, but they didn't stop to look as Mila led them toward the parlor.

"Don't mind the mess," she said as she took their coats and hung them on the rack. It wasn't messy at all, a fact that struck Viktor as odd; Mila was professional, but she was very much a free spirit underneath it. She'd only been obshchak for a short while, but she already had a reputation for her ruthless playfulness and her men were both terrified and drawn to her. She didn't strike Viktor as the type to live in a place so devoid of personality.

Yuuri didn't wait for an invitation to sit down. He sat on the most comfortable armchair by the fire and pulled a box of cigarettes from his pocket.

"Sit," he ordered, and both Mila and Viktor did as he asked, sitting side by side on the divan. It wasn't until he finished lighting his cigarette that his tone softened. "Sorry for interrupting your evening without warning, Mila."

The atmosphere between them suddenly lost its tension and they all relaxed, almost without noticing.

"Don't worry about it," Mila said cheerfully. She leaned back into the divan, completely at ease now, though Vitya noticed that a certain sadness still remained in her expression. "You're always welcome here, Yuuri."

Vitya was startled by the familiarity; he'd only ever seen Mila and Yuuri interact in a professional setting. It wasn't odd for a pakhan and his obshchak to be informal, but that usually belied a lifelong bond that preceded those roles.

Maybe there is one, Vitya scolded himself. Surely they spoke at least a few times growing up, even if Yuuri never told me about it...

His heart seemed to tighten slightly, as it always did when he reminded himself of how little he really knew about his lover.

Yuuri gave her a rare smile; it lasted only a moment and was gone before Vitya could react.

"Sorry to get to the point, but we have some business to attend to after this," Yuuri said as he dug into his breast pocket and pulled out an envelope. He slid it across the tea table toward her, and she took it, one eyebrow raised.

"Don't tell me that Mother left a secret will with the bratva," she said. Her tone was teasing but Vitya could sense the pain underneath it. Mila had lost both her parents in such a short span of time; worse, she was no stranger to being orphaned, even if the circumstances were completely different.

"No, Lilia didn't like the family much. She was against you succeeding Yakov in the first place, after all," Yuuri said quietly. Mila nodded and something passed between them that Viktor, even having lost his father, simply couldn't empathize with. Instead, he watched Mila tear the envelope and unfold the contents. She read quietly, tucking her hair behind her ear as her eyes swept over the page. She reached the end and paused, frowning.

"You can't be serious, Yuuri," she said suddenly. Yuuri closed his eyes briefly, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

"I am," he said simply.

"But I can't be your heir!" Mila insisted, shoving the letter back toward him. "I'm not related to you, to either of you! And I'm not interested in being pakhan, my job is to protect you, not take over when you die!"

"I'm not related to anyone in my family either," Yuuri said, and Vitya thought that something in his expression seemed pained. "As long as the inner circle is in agreement, anyone can be appointed to succeed."

"That isn't what I meant, Yuri Mikhailovich," Mila hissed. "I'm Father's heir, I have my own role to play in the bratva, a role I'm proud of. Besides, you're too young to come up with a will for this; if you have children-"

"I won't," Yuuri said, and it was such a firm, cold response that Mila hesitated. She glanced toward Vitya.

"Adoption is also out of the question," he said, replying to her unspoken question in a low, quiet voice. They didn't need to talk about it for Vitya to understand Yuuri's reasons; even if they were married and lived to be hundred together, Yuuri could never be a father. It would tear him apart.

"But..." Mila didn't seem to know where to turn. Vitya had never seen her so uncertain before. She was usually so fiery and carefree, but she seemed to sense that there was something under all of this, something that was too dangerous to bring up.

Clever girl, Vitya thought sadly. No matter how much Yuuri denied it, both Vitya and Mila knew that he was addressing the problem of an heir... just in case.

The water was cold, icy knives in his flesh, in his lungs, in his heart. He relished the pain, he knew it meant there wouldn't be anyone left to hurt once the last of his breath slipped away. It was relief, it was a mercy to die like this, and Yuuri, for the first time in so many years, felt like he'd finally done the right thing.

But it didn't last.

Life returned abruptly, with violent insistence. And Viktor was crying in his arms, helpless, desperate.

Yuuri didn't really understand as he absently stroked Vitya's hair. Everything about this moment was off, reversed.

Somehow, it struck him just how fragile the world really was.

The drive back was quiet. Yuuri stared out the window, knowing that Vitya was glancing at him every few seconds as he drove. They'd already had an argument about this, and Yuuri had no intention of letting it resurface. Viktor wanted a promise from him, a reassurance that Yuuri would never try to kill himself again, but that wasn't something Yuuri was able to give. It didn't matter how much Vitya begged and pleaded, how many lies he told when he tried to assure Yuuri that he was loved and cared for; in the end, it all came down to one very simple truth, something Yuuri could never run from no matter where he went.

I'm like a disease, he thought dully, catching a glimpse of his own dark hair and angled eyes in the mirror. He grit his teeth, feeling disgust and self-hatred pool in the pit of his stomach. Why can't he understand that?!

It wasn't as though Yuuri didn't know the answer. Vitya was different from him. From the minute he returned to Russia, Yuuri could sense that much; the things that Yuuri had experienced and done didn't belong in Vitya's world. He was selfish in his innocence and his clear-cut view of the world. He'd stayed all these years, not because of love, as he liked to pretend, but because of guilt. In his eyes, it was probably the kindest thing he could do. He was that sort of man.

"Vitya..." he said softly.

"Yes, Yuratchka?"

"She's very young, isn't she," he said, pressing his cheek to his hand as the car turned into their street.

Viktor nodded. "Mm."

"But not all that much younger than me."

"... No, she isn't."

"It's funny, don't you think? Our parents all say they love and care about us, but they all want us to follow in their footsteps, in the end."

Vitya didn't reply as he focused on parking the car.

"I don't like the idea of making someone take up after me," Yuuri noted. "Not even someone like Mila."

"Then don't die, Yuuri," Viktor said firmly, shutting off the engine. He turned his sharp blue eyes toward him, an angry, heavy plea in them. "Don't die, and no one will have to follow you."

Yuuri laughed. It was a hollow, cold sound.

"Isn't that cruel of you, Vitya?" he asked. "You don't mind if I have to live through this hell, as long as no one else does?"

"That isn't what I meant, Yuratchka..."

"It never is with you," Yuuri said dully. He pushed the door open.

He never turned back, but he knew Viktor was following. He was always there.

For now, at least.

"You look exhausted, Papa."

Yuuri blinked, confused. It took him a moment to remember that he was sitting at a cafe with Mila seated across from him.

"Sorry, what was that?"

Mila gave him a small, sympathetic smile.

"Having trouble sleeping?" she asked, stirring her cup of tea casually.

Yuuri raised an eyebrow at her.

"How did you-?"

"You have bags under your eyes," she said simply, taking a sip from her cup. "And you look a bit ill."

"...That's observant of you."

She chuckled.

"Yuri Mikhailovich, the sovietnik is not the only person tasked with your well-being." She reached for her fork and cut into the piece of cake she'd ordered for herself. "It's my job to pay attention. Father would have had my hide if I couldn't even notice that you were looking under the weather." She put the fork into her mouth and made a small noise of contentment. "By the way, we're being watched," she said as simply as if she were stating the weather.

Looking through the papers in front of him, Yuuri nodded slightly. "How many?" he asked, completely at ease as he signed his name with a flourish.

"Just the one. He's passed us three times since we've been here. Should I take care of him?"

"Not yet," he said, still focused on his work. "What did he look like?"

"Blonde. Tall. Russian."

"Funny," he snorted, and Mila laughed as she put down her fork.

"Well he is," she insisted. "He's got a tattoo on the side of his neck. It's a Lagransky marking."

Yuuri tapped his fingers on the table.

"A dangerous one," he noted. Only members of the bratva that had survived time in prison were bold enough to wear tattoos that obvious or flashy.

"Or a lucky one," Mila said simply.

Yuuri nodded and slid one of the papers toward her.

"You need to sign there," he said, handing her his pen. She pursed her lips slightly but nevertheless did as he asked.

"Mother would kill me if she knew what this contract said," she muttered.

"As would mine," Yuuri agreed. "Which is why this stays between the three of us," he said sharply.

Mila emptied her cup, sighing. She held up a wrist to check her watch. It was overlarge, a thick, silver piece that Yuuri recognized as once having belonged to Yakov Feltman.

"Viktor is late," she noted.

Yuuri winced slightly at the name, and Mila's expression immediately changed.

"Oho, something tells me I know the reason for your lack of sleep," she said suggestively, the side of her mouth twitching in amusement. Mila was extraordinarily young for a member of the bratva's inner circle, but sometimes it was quite obvious that she'd been raised by an old man.

"Don't be lewd," he scolded as he clipped the documents together. "It has nothing to do with that."

"I wasn't being lewd," she insisted. "I just pay attention; whatever you're losing sleep over has to do with Viktor Mikhailovich. You're the one who thought of something indecent," she laughed.

"Mila," Yuuri said, warning thick in his voice.

"Relax, Yuuri. It was just a joke," she said, waving his concern away. Her expression became somewhat serious again. "You've been arguing, haven't you?"

"And either you've been spying, or you're uncannily good at guessing," he said suspiciously.

"Ha, I don't need to spy," she scoffed. "Vitya is an open book, if you know how to read him. I spent a lot of time with Mikhail Yemelyanovich and Katerina Ivanovna while training under Father, and Viktor is very much his parents' son."

Yuuri hesitated for a moment, his finger slipping on the edge of the documents. He barely felt the sting of the cut at all.

"Mila... don't meddle in things that don't concern you. It doesn't become a future pakhan."

She glared at him.

"I never asked to be your successor, Yuri Mikhailovich."

His eyes caught hers, and though she tried to hold his gaze, in the end she was the one who looked away.

"It's important to be prepared for the unexpected," he said flatly. His tone indicated that the subject was dropped.

Silence fell between them for a minute, and Mila reached into her coat.

"He's here," she said, looking out the window. Yuuri had to avoid looking over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of Viktor's platinum hair in the crowd.

"...I see."

"Well, I'll be off then," Mila said, getting up from the table. "There's someone who is trying to catch my attention." She brushed the hair from her face and there was a subtle click from the inside of her pocket.

"Don't kill him right away," Yuuri warned. "We want to know what he's up to."

"Of course," she said. She had nearly cleared their table when she stopped and turned. "You know, he's only human, Yuuri," she said suddenly. "He worries about you."

"I know that," he said.

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment before she walked away and out the door, looking nothing like the successor to the most powerful mafia family in Piter. As she strode into an alley confidently, Yuuri watched through the window. About a minute passed before a suspicious looking man followed her in, casting a quick glance to the left before he did. Yuuri turned back to his coffee, not at all concerned. The Lagransky man wouldn't be coming out.

Viktor arrived a few moments later, his coat buttoned up wrong and his cheeks flushed with effort.

"Sorry," he said hurriedly as he reached the table. "I got caught up in traffic-"

"It's fine," Yuuri said simply, getting up from his seat and pushing the chair in. "You were only a few minutes late."

"Where's Mila?"

"We finished our business and she left," Yuuri said, setting off down the street. Viktor followed, keeping pace. The snow crunched beneath their feet, almost drowned out by the sounds of the city in the evening light.

"She left you alone?" Viktor asked seriously, a note of severity in his voice.

Yuuri felt a stab of irritation.

"I'm not a child, Vitya," he said pointedly. "I can take care of myself."

"I didn't mean it like that..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Yuuri sighed. He glanced up at Vitya's taller figure walking next to him. "She left less than a minute before you arrived."

"Oh. That's good then," he replied, obviously relieved.

'He's only human, Yuuri. He worries about you.'

I know that, he thought irritably. I'm not an idiot, I don't think he's an angel or something. I know better than anyone that he's a liar and a hypocrite.

But what does that make me, if I need those lies just to stay alive?

"Oh, Yuuri, here," Vitya suddenly said, slipping off his jacket and handing it to him. Yuuri blinked.

"Huh?"

"You're cold, aren't you? Your hands are trembling," Vitya said, stopping to pull the jacket over Yuuri's shoulders. He was suddenly whisked back to his childhood, when Vitya had done this exact same gesture countless times. "There," he said, his eyes bright in the light of the street lamps.

Yuuri forgot all about his own dislike of public intimacy. He didn't care if there were people watching as he yanked Vitya down by the collar and kissed him fiercely, violently, in the middle of the street.

I'm just as much of a hypocrite, he thought as he let go, dizzy and gasping for breath, his fingers stiff around Vitya's sweater.

That thought stayed with him all through the night, and once they were in bed, Vitya fast asleep at his side, he couldn't help stroking his hair, just like he had that night on the riverbank.

I'm afraid, Vitya, he thought as he found a thinner area on the crown of Vitya's head, his fingers caressing the soft, silvery strands. The longer I stay, the more I hurt you.

His eyes fell on Vitya's back and shoulders, covered in bites and bruises that Yuuri himself had left.

He closed his eyes, pressing his nose to Vitya's hair.

Mila, when I'm gone, please protect him for me.

Notes:

Welp, I had quite a lot of trouble with this request, and it didn't help that I got a bad case of writer's block on top of it. Sorry for the long wait, but hopefully now I can focus on my last pending request and the final touchups of the doujin. As always, I hope you'll enjoy this side story. Drop me a comment and let me know your thoughts!